


Not Everyone Trusts Paintings

by Dream Painter (randomelity)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomelity/pseuds/Dream%20Painter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While awaiting signs of demonic omens, the boys stumble upon a string of murders committed by a shapeshifter. Meanwhile, a local girl may be more than she appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Set after episode 3x03: Bad Day at Black Rock
> 
> Rated for language and some violence

_  
**Chapter One**   
_

0o0

 

"I'm telling you, Sam, something weird is going on," Dean said as he and his brother entered the small diner. "All those demons escaping through the Devil's Gate – you'd think there'd be more, I dunno, trouble or something."

"Instead, there's been nothing since Lincoln," Sam murmured in agreement. They took a seat at an empty booth, each grabbing a laminated menu from the end of the table.

A girl sitting nearby at the counter was talking on her cell phone, her conversation just audible over the television mounted to the wall. "Yes, I checked," she was saying. "I watched the whole thing – there was no way to tell one way or another." A sigh. "Yeah. I heard."

"What can I get started for you boys?" the waitress asked, coming to stand beside their table.

"I'll take a burger with an order of fries," Dean answered, sliding the menu back into its holder.

"Anything to drink?"

"Coke, please."

"Alright." She finished writing down Dean's order before turning to Sam. "And what can I get for you?"

"Can I get a grilled chicken sandwich and a side of onion rings, please," Sam requested. "And I'll try a glass of your iced tea, also."

"Okay. Let me get these going for you gentlemen and I'll return with your drinks in just a bit."

"Thank you," Sam told her. The waitress moved around the end of the counter, passing the girl on the cell phone.

"Daddy, please," she murmured in apparent protest. "Okay. See you soon. Bye." She hung up as the waitress made her way back with the boys' drinks.

"Can I get you anything else, Leslie?"

"Oh – no, Tess. I'm fine. I'm just gonna finish up here and head out."

"How long you in town for?" Tess wanted to know, pausing for the response.

Dean took this opportunity to start flicking jelly packs at his brother, earning himself what he secretly thought of as Sam's bitch face. And a kick in the shin.

"Ouch," he mumbled, finally ceasing his attack.

"Not sure, yet," the girl, Leslie, replied. "I've got a few things I have to do."

"Well, you be sure to stop in again before you leave, ya hear?"

Leslie turned as Tess continued towards the Winchesters' table. "You can count on it."

"Here you boys are," Tess addressed them, just as Sam returned the last jelly to the basket. "I'll have your sandwiches out to you just as soon as they're off the grill."

"Thanks," Sam said, smiling politely.

Meanwhile, Leslie had risen from her stool, leaving a bill beside her plate. "Thank you, Tess."

"Leslie, don't you go before I get you your change," the woman spoke sternly.

The girl flashed her an unrepentant smile. "'Fraid you'll have to keep it," she said. "Gotta run – things to do." And with that, she exited the diner.

"'Things to do', my foot," Tess muttered, picking the cash off the counter and clearing away the dirty dishes. She returned from the kitchen with Sam and Dean's orders a moment later. On the television, a woman announced the local news.

" _Police are still working to identify a possible suspect in the brutal murder of 28-year-old Nicholas Casby, found early this morning. Casby was last seen in the company of an unidentified woman, seen here in the security footage taken in his apartment complex late last night..._ "

"Sam," said Dean, straightening in his seat.

"I saw it," Sam responded.

"Poor soul," Tess declared, shaking her head. "And he ain't the first, either."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked her.

"Well, there's been four others who've been killed in the past three weeks or so," the woman replied. "Used to be, this was a safe place to live, but not lately, it isn't. Not lately..."

The two brothers exchanged a glance. "Can we get our check, please?"

Tess eyed their scarcely touched meals, but complied nonetheless. Meanwhile, a still from the security footage was on-screen, the woman's eyes shining ominously for the camera.

 

0o0o0

 

The door swung open to reveal a young woman with eyes red from crying. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"Are you Brianna Maxwell?"

She eyed the two men warily before giving a reluctant nod. "Yeah. That's me."

"I'm Agent Carlson, and this is my partner, Agent Myers," Sam continued, he and his brother simultaneously flashing their fake FBI badges. "We'd like to ask you a few questions about your cousin, Nick Casby."

"Alright. Come on in." She led them to a rather cramped living room cluttered with various college textbooks. "Can I, uh, get you anything to drink, or..."

"No, thank you," Dean told her, taking a seat on the edge of the sofa as Sam followed suit. "This will only take a moment of your time."

"'Kay, um," Brianna sank into a chair, her hands clasping together in her lap. "What would you like to know? I mean, I talked to the police this morning..."

"We're doing our own investigation," Sam said kindly.

"Oh. Right." She sniffled a bit, bringing a kleenex to her nose.

"Miss Maxwell," questioned Dean, "is it true that you and your cousin grew up together?"

"Yeah. My aunt and uncle raised me after my parents... after they were killed in an accident. Nick was like an older brother to me. We were really close."

"And the woman from the security footage the night he died," Sam prompted, "any idea who she is?"

"No. I'd never seen her before."

"So, Nick never said anything about her?" he persisted. "Maybe told you her name, or where they met?"

"Well, yeah," Brianna said. "I mean, he said he'd met someone, but you gotta understand. Nick... Look, I loved my cousin, okay? I did. But Nick – he was always meeting someone. It was like 'flavor of the week', and after a while, I just... I couldn't bring myself to care anymore. It wasn't like Nick even cared about any of them. So, when he mentioned he'd met someone a few days ago, I didn't even ask.

"Now, he's dead." A sob escaped her lips and her eyes filled with fresh tears. "He's dead and she probably killed him and the authorities don't even have a _name_ because I couldn't be bothered to ask."

Not much else was forthcoming as the young woman promptly burst into tears. They did manage to get Brianna to write down a list of the places her cousin had liked to visit, but it wasn't as short as they would have liked.

"Checking out all these places could take days," said Dean, handing the list to Sam as they climbed into the Impala. "We need to talk to some of the other victims' families or friends, see if we can't narrow it down."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, studying the list as they pulled onto the road. "Definitely could save us some time."

 

0o0o0

 

The rest of the afternoon passed and the two hunters were no closer to finding the killer than before. Evening found them in a small bar called Robby's, where Sam sat in the corner researching on his laptop while Dean mingled with the other patrons to see what he might be able to find.

"Nothing," the elder Winchester muttered after a couple of hours, plopping down in the seat across from Sam. "Isn't there anyone in this town who knows _anything_? I mean, come on!" He took a drink and sat his glass on the table. "Find anything?"

"Not much," Sam responded. "I dunno, Dean. With the exception of Nick Casby, it seems the shapeshifter is mostly picking off people who keep to themselves. I mean, Jenna Adamson: championship rider, spent all her time caring for her horses; Noelle Manning: obsessed with running her restaurant."

"Not to mention Mr. Home-made Art Museum and Miss University Swim Team," added Dean.

"Neither of which had any family in the area."

"So, how is this thing choosing its victims? I mean, shouldn't there be some sort of pattern or something they all have in common?"

"I don't know, Dean. Maybe, it's picking them up at the same place."

"Which leaves us with the list of places Nick Casby used to visit and no idea what the thing looks like."

"Pretty much," Sam agreed.

"Friggin' shapeshifters," Dean grumbled. "I hate the damn things." He finished off his drink and rose from his chair. "I'm getting another drink. Want anything?" he asked.

The younger man shook his head. "No. I'm good, thanks."

"Suit yourself."

As the bartender got him another beer, Dean glanced at his surroundings. Most of the bar's patrons were seated at tables or playing pool in the back. Two people were seated at the bar, itself. One, a middle-aged man, sat gazing somberly into his half-empty glass of whiskey. The other, a young woman, sat at the far end of the counter, apparently writing notes on a stack of papers in some sort of daybook. She was pretty, in a small town sort of way, with dark, wavy hair and light skin. Dean thought he'd seen her before, but it wasn't until she looked up to address the bartender and he got a clear view of her face that he remembered where.

He made his way towards her.

"No, I've just been busy," she was telling the bartender, "traveling and stuff. Nothing exciting."

"Exciting enough that you never call," the man replied, a faint British accent shaping his words.

She snorted. "Good god, Robby. What are you – my dad?"

"I am merely an old classmate concerned for your welfare," said Robby.

"Uh-huh." Her tone was rife with sarcasm. "No doubt, your motives are _entirely_ pure."

Robby put a hand to his chest. "You wound me," he declared.

"Deal with it," she grinned back. He shook his head and left to tend another customer.

"Mind if I sit here?" Dean asked, gesturing to an empty stool.

The girl shrugged. "It's a free country," she stated. She tucked her papers into the daybook and closed it, setting it aside.

"That's what I keep hearing," the hunter remarked, taking a seat. "So. You must be from around here."

She smirked in amusement. "Because I know the bartender?"

"Well, that, and you're on a first name basis with the waitress at the diner up the street," he pointed out.

"Oh, right," she said, looking him over. "Burger and fries with coke. Seated across from grilled chicken with onion rings and iced tea."

"You were on the phone," he said accusingly.

"Good hearing," she replied, then offered her hand. "Name's Leslie. And I did grow up here."

"Dean," he returned. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Leslie tossed her head and Dean noticed the amulet hanging about her neck. A forlorn-looking girl with a shackle around her wrist was etched on its surface.

"I like your necklace," he said.

Her hand went to the pendant. "Thanks. My mom's kind of pseudo-religious. She had it made for me when I was fifteen."

"It's nice. Silver?"

"Palladium, actually. You sure ask a lot of questions. What about your necklace? Seems like a rather unique pendant."

Dean fingered the small piece of metal. "Yeah. My brother gave it to me when we were kids."

"And you still have it," noted Leslie. "You must be close."

"We are."

"Must be nice," she said, thoughtfully turning her glass between her hands. "I wish I had siblings, sometimes. Then, again, it's probably better I don't."

"Let me guess," said Dean. "You don't play well with others."

Leslie laughed. "Something like that," she agreed. Finishing off her drink, she dug a bill from her purse and put it on the counter.

"Leaving so soon?"

"I've got an early day tomorrow, so I'd better call it a night. Maybe I'll see you around."

"Guess we'll have to wait and see," Dean returned. Grabbing her daybook, she gave him a parting wave and left, leaving him to ponder his current job once more.

 

0o0


	2. Chapter Two

_**Chapter Two** _

0o0

 

"I think I've identified our mystery woman," Sam said the moment Dean returned with coffee the next morning.

"You mean, the one whose face the shapeshifter was wearing at Nick Casby's?" asked Dean. "How?"

"It wasn't easy," replied the younger man, taking his coffee as he turned the laptop so his brother could see. "Her name is Eileen Prince, from a town in east Colorado. Police don't really consider her a suspect."

"Why's that?"

"Because she was killed fourteen months ago in, get this, a string of unsolved murders."

"How many?" Dean wanted to know, browsing the article accompanying the photo of Eileen Prince.

"Seven," answered Sam. "All murdered with something from their own homes."

"And the murder weapon was something that belonged to her, just like all the others." Dean looked up from the computer.

"Just like here," Sam confirmed. "There was a similar string of murders in South Dakota almost a year before that. Seven victims, no lead on a suspect."

"Think the seven has any religious significance?"

"Well, it is a biblical number."

"That's super. Just great," grumbled Dean, "a killer with a sense of spirituality."

"Could just be a coincidence," offered Sam.

"When is it ever just a coincidence?"

"Almost never."

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Alright. Seven victims. We're up to number five."

"Six," corrected Sam as he took a drink of coffee. Then, at Dean's look, "Call came over the police scanner just before you got back."

"Did you catch the address?" his brother asked. Sam held up a sheet of hotel stationary. "Let's go check it out."

 

0o0o0

 

It hadn't taken them very long to come upon the crime scene. The victim, Tom Barker, had been bludgeoned to death – with a bowling trophy, no less. It was one of the messier scenes. After some snooping, they had the name of the victim's best friend and decided to go talk to him and come back to look around more when the police had cleared the area.

Joey Alders lived on the basement floor of a decrepit apartment building on the other side of town. Obviously, he didn't have the same financial income that his best friend had had.

"You Joey?" Dean asked when Joey answered the door. "A friend of Tom Barker, killed just last night?"

Joey swallowed, still having trouble believing his friend was really gone. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm Tom's friend Joey."

"FBI," the elder Winchester told him, he and Sam flashing their fake badges simultaneously. "We believe there might be a serial killer on the loose. We need you to tell us anything you know about the people Tom has been spending time with recently, especially anyone new he might have met."

"Hasn't been hanging out with anyone different lately," Joey frowned. "Oh! Except Lynn. Tom met her at the club, maybe, I dunno... a week ago?"

Sam was taking down notes. "Did you get a last name?" he asked.

"No. No last name. None that I ever heard, anyway."

"What's the name of the club?" Dean wanted to know.

"Oasis," Joey told him. "Over on the corner of 4th and Vine. Real glitzy place – Tom had to pay for me to get in."

"Alright, thank you for your time," Sam said. "We're sorry for your loss. If we need anything else, we'll give you a call."

"Yeah," Joey nodded. "Okay."

"So, this thing is picking up people in this nightclub," Sam surmised as they returned to the car.

"Sounds about right," Dean agreed. "Let's go see if 'Lynn' left behind any clues."

They made their way back to Tom Barker's apartment building, parking a little ways up the street. Caution tape was everywhere, but the police had already left and the two brothers had no trouble slipping in unseen.

A rust-red stain in the light colored carpet in the bedroom marked the spot where Tom Barker had bled to death hours before. The trophy used in beating him sat on the dresser, one of its marble corners a bloodied mess, as though it had been calmly replaced after serving its purpose.

"Looks like he was really into bowling," Sam said, looking around at the various paraphernalia decorating the man's apartment.

"Yeah, I'd say," Dean agreed, peering at a photo picturing Tom Barker with some of his buddies and the trophy that finally did him in. "The man belonged to a bowling league!"

"This trophy look a little heavy to be wielded as a weapon to you?" the younger Winchester asked.

"By some big, burly guy?" returned his brother. "Maybe not. But some girl called Lynn? Not happening."

"My thoughts exactly." They poked around a bit more, unable to find anything useful.

As they left, Dean turned to Sam. "Shapeshifters have fingerprints, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, they practically become the person they're impersonating," Sam confirmed.

"So, if this thing is leaving the murder weapons behind, why the hell aren't the police finding any prints?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe shapeshifters don't have to have fingerprints."

"That's possible," Dean conceded, though still not completely satisfied. They climbed into the Impala and started off. "So, what do you wanna do now? Should we grab some food?"

Sam briefly pondered how many people could actually consume food after seeing what they just saw. "Might as well," he said. "No one will probably be at the Oasis until tonight, anyway."

"Right," Dean agreed. "Let's go back to that diner – I wanna try a piece of their pie."

 

0o0o0

 

The door of the diner opened as Leslie made her way in, cell phone once more at her ear. "... over the past week. Yeah. Just before that," she was saying to whoever was on the other end. "Of course not." A flicker of annoyance entered her tone. "I do realize that. That's why I'm heading back tonight." What sounded like a muffled sigh. "I will... Oh, no – I'm catching a late lunch at Sal's. Yeah. … Okay. Bye."

Tess had come out and delivered the boys' meals as Leslie finished her conversation. "There you are, child," the black woman greeted. "I was wondering if you'd be back in today."

"I promised I would," Leslie responded.

"You said you'd be back in before you left town. That's different," the waitress corrected. "You are sticking around a little while longer, aren't you? You just came back home a few days ago."

"At least a couple days," the girl told her, taking the stool she'd sat in the day before. "Don't worry. I'll say goodbye before I leave again."

"You'd better," said Tess. "What would you like, today?"

"Just my usual, Tess."

"Your usual. You do realize there are other items on the menu, don't you?"

Leslie gave a short laugh. "Fine. I'll take the grilled chicken sandwich and a bowl of today's soup," she said. "Sprite to drink." She shook her head as Tess took her order back to the cook.

Dean swallowed the bite he'd finished chewing. "So, why did you move away?"

Leslie turned to face him, not looking wholly surprised to see him there. "School, actually," she answered. "Hello, again."

"How's it going," Dean returned. He scooted closer to the window. "Why don't you join us?"

She gave him a mildly speculative look before rising from her seat and crossing over to their table. "Hi, I'm Leslie," she said, extending a hand to Sam.

"Sam," he replied. "Dean's brother."

"A pleasure."

Tess returned with Leslie's drink, halting momentarily upon noting the girl's relocation. She smiled rather smugly as she set the Sprite down on the table. "About time you started noticing boys."

"Tess. Please."

Tess just smirked and carried on with her duties.

"She has been trying to get me a boyfriend since I was, like, fourteen," Leslie explained. "She's worse than my mom."

"I heard that, Leslie Kane," Tess tutted as she went by with hands full of dirty dishes. She brought out Leslie's food a moment later and the three of them were left to their meal.

"So, you grew up here and went away for school," said Dean. "What brings you back?"

"Visiting my parents," the girl replied. "They still live here, so I come to see them. What about you? You're not from around here. What brings you to town?"

"Actually, we're just passing through. Figured we'd stop for a few days."

"Right. Well, I suppose there's a few things to be seen around here," Leslie said. "Though, with all the murders, lately, it's a bit less hospitable than it usually is."

"Yeah, we've been seeing that on the news," Sam said. "Wasn't there another one just last night?"

"Two nights in a row," she murmured, frowning into her soup.

"Someone you know?" the younger Winchester asked.

"No. It's just..." Leslie raised blue-gray eyes to meet his. "This is my town. I don't like the thought of bad things happening here."

"I know what you mean," Dean agreed. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"So, Leslie, which school did you attend?" Sam asked conversationally.

"Oh. Just some school out west," Leslie replied. "I had a scholarship. And then, I went and dropped out after the first quarter."

"Why would you drop out?" he asked incredulously.

Leslie shrugged indifferently, though, there seemed to be a flicker of regret in her eyes. "Just felt out of place, I guess."

The rest of their meal passed in idle conversation as the three young people exchanged nonsensitive information – which was embellished or tweaked as necessary, of course. When they had finished and paid their bills, they stepped out into the late afternoon air.

"I had a good time," Leslie told them. "It was nice."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "It was good talking to you."

"The same. I hope you guys enjoy the rest of your stay."

"I'm sure we will," said Dean.

She turned toward a blue Dodge Spirit, stopping as she reached the curb in front of it. "Hey," she called after them. They paused on their trek to the Impala to look back at her. "Never mind. Sorry."

"What is it?" Sam wanted to know.

"Just... watch yourselves," Leslie said.

"Always," Dean responded with a cocky grin. He turned to his brother once Leslie finally got into her car. "I don't suppose you know who that is on her necklace, by any chance?"

"I'm guessing one of the saints," said Sam. "Shouldn't take too long to find out. Why do you ask?"

They climbed into the Impala. "Nice, home-town girl with some sort of religious background? It'd make a good cover for our shapeshifter and its thing for the biblical number seven, don't you think?"

"Maybe," the younger man conceded. "So, you think Leslie might be our killer? Isn't that pendant made of silver?"

His brother shook his head. "According to Leslie, it's made of palladium," he said. "I just think it's a bit convenient that a girl who's moved away shows up when all these murders are happening."

"Well," said Sam, "We've still got a few hours before the Oasis is open for the night. We could do some digging, see if we turn up anything suspicious on her, or maybe some indication that she isn't really back in town."

"My thoughts exactly," Dean agreed. "And thanks to good ol' Tess, we know her full name."

"Leslie Kane," Sam stated.

"Leslie Kane," his brother repeated.

 

0o0o0

 

"Find anything, Sam?" Dean asked, looking up from the stack of records he was going through.

"Well, it looks like she was home-schooled until she reached high school, where she graduated at the top of her class," said Sam. "Apparently, she had several schools offering her scholarships..."

"Sam?" the elder Winchester prompted when he trailed off.

"Oh, it's nothing."

"You find anything on where she went for college?"

"Not yet," Sam responded, leafing through more pages. "I'd have to do some more digging. What about you? Find anything?"

"Some stuff about her parents – a Marshal and Sally Kane," Dean replied, consulting his own pile of documents. "Her dad served time in the military before opening up a hunting goods store with a buddy of his."

"What about Mrs. Kane?"

"Nothing, really. Looks like she's a housewife."

"They still live in the area?"

"Yeah. Leslie was telling the truth about that, at least."

"Sirs." They looked up to see the woman who'd been manning the desk when they arrived. "We're closing in ten minutes."

"Alright. We'll head out," Dean told her. "Thanks." They finished up and left the building.

"So, there's not anything overtly suspicious about her past," Sam began.

"You mean, something that screams 'shape-shifting psycho killer'?" quipped Dean. "Not in her past, no. I tell you what, though. If we figure out where she went after she left here..."

"We should be able to figure out if it's really Leslie who came back for a visit," his brother concluded.

"Yahtzee." They climbed into the Impala.

"Think we should head over there, now?"

"Nah. Too late. We'll swing by there tomorrow if we can't find anything at the club," said Dean.

"And if this thing kills again before tomorrow?" asked Sam. "We're already down six victims, Dean. One more, and it'll probably skip town."

The older hunter blew a breath out through his teeth. "I know, Sam. But even if it is using Leslie's form to hide, our best lead is the place its picking up its victims. I just hope the thing shows up so we can finish this."

"Me, too," Sam agreed.

 

0o0


	3. Chapter Three

_**Chapter Three** _

0o0

 

They arrived at the Oasis later that evening, about an hour after the place had opened. It took them awhile to find the small room where the security equipment was kept. A young man was sitting inside, listening to an mp3 player and playing some hand-held video game.

"Excuse me," Sam spoke up for what must have been the third or fourth time. The guy finally looked up.

"Oh, dude," he said, taking out an earphone. "Sorry. Didn't see you there. What can I do for you?" He smelled quite distinctively of smoke – and it wasn't tobacco smoke, either.

"We're with the security company," Dean told him. "We're here to make sure the equipment's working properly."

"Okey-doke," the guy nodded. "Can I take a break, then?"

"Knock yourself out," said Sam.

"Sweet!" He grabbed a couple personal items and left the area.

"With a guy like that manning the screens, it's no wonder people are being picked up by shape-shifting killers," murmured Dean, only half-jokingly. Finding which drawer of the filing cabinet contained previous security footage, the two brothers shifted through them until they found a disc that looked promising. Sam had called Joey Alders earlier and was able to get the exact day he had come to the club with Tom Barker, but that still left hours of footage to forward through. They set to work.

"Alright, there's Joey and Tom," Sam said, leaning closer to the screen where he was watching the disc. "With any luck, we'll catch a glimpse of our shapeshifter."

Dean was more or less watching over his shoulder, though his attention often wandered to the multiple screens displaying events in progress. "Dude, look who's here," he spoke up suddenly, lightly hitting his brother in the shoulder.

"Just a second, I think that's her," the younger man murmured, attention fully on Tom interacting with a woman he'd just met.

"Sam!"

It was _that_ tone. The tone that meant that something was going down and it was clearly accentuated by Dean suddenly rising and making his way out of the room and down the hall with long strides.

"Dean!" Sam tore his attention from what he was watching, turning to the live footage to try to see what had set his brother off. There, amidst the crowd, was Leslie Kane. That was one thing explained. She was looking around, obviously trying to find someone. As it swept over the crowd, her gaze caught the camera.

Sam froze.

It was her. The girl they'd had lunch with mere hours before. Her eyes met the camera once more and Sam no longer had any doubt. It was her. She was a shapeshifter. Leslie Kane – the girl who had grown up in this town – she _was_ their killer.

And Dean had just gone after her alone.

 

0o0o0

 

The music was almost too loud for comfort, as was the habit of many clubs, it seemed. The Oasis was pretty popular and it was a bit difficult to make it through the crowd without running into people. Leslie had almost made it to the bar when someone grabbed her by the arm.

"Leslie," Dean spoke over the crowd. "We need to talk."

"Look, Dean, now is not a good time..." Leslie began.

"Now is a great time," the man insisted, pulling her back through the throng.

"Dean!" she protested, attempting to wriggle from his grasp, but his grip was bruising in its strength. "Ouch – let me go! Where the hell are you taking me?"

He dragged her out through a back door, practically throwing her into the alley ahead of him. By the time she turned to face him again, he had a gun pointed at her.

"You can stop pretending," he spat, anger and a hint of betrayal in his tone. "I know what you are."

"What..?" Her eyes narrowed slightly as the realization came to her. "You're a hunter."

"And you're a murderous, shape-shifting sonuvabitch," he replied.

"Dean!" Sam rushed out at that moment, concern for his brother etched on his features. He halted as he stepped out into the alley, the minutest amount of relief just evident on his face. His gaze flitted back and forth between his brother and the shapeshifter as they faced each other.

"Dean, listen to me," Leslie said. Her hands were raised in submission and her posture and tone, though wary, were entirely... _nonthreatening._ Dean was slowly squeezing the trigger, weapon pointed straight at the girl's heart. "I am what you call a shapeshifter, but I am not a killer."

"What are you saying?" Sam demanded, something about the situation not quite settling right with him.

Leslie met his gaze, her eyes begging him to believe her, though her expression showed no sign of such a plea. "You've got the wrong one."

The two Winchester boys exchanged a glance. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean demanded, his aim unwavering.

"There's another shapeshifter," Leslie told him. "I've been tracking him for about a week. He's the one killing these people."

"Likely story."

"Dean, maybe we should listen to her," Sam spoke up.

"Listen to ' _her'_?" his brother exclaimed. "Sam, it's a friggin' shapeshifter!"

"But what if she's telling the truth? Are you just gonna kill her?"

"These things _lie_ , Sam. It's what they are – and they're damn good at it."

"Spoken like a true believer of 'shoot first, ask questions later'," Leslie quipped.

"Y'know, I happen to have a gun loaded with silver bullets pointed at you," Dean reminded her irritably.

"True," she conceded, "but maybe I have quicker reflexes."

Sam could have sworn the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. It was hard to be certain, though, because a split-second later, she was in motion. Dean pulled the trigger, but before he could get off another shot, something slammed against his wrist, causing him to drop the gun.

"Sonuvabitch," he cursed, cradling his arm.

"Dean!" Sam was at his side in an instant.

"Go after the damn thing!" Dean ground out.

The younger man took up the pistol and raced down the alley. By the time he reached the street, Leslie was long gone. Sam made his way back towards Dean.

"You alright?" he asked in concern, noticing that Dean's expression still looked pained.

"It threw a trash can lid at me." His teeth were still clenched together.

"Yeah, I saw that."

"It got away?"

"Yeah, it – she could have gone anywhere."

"Sam," Dean said. "Tell me I at least hit the damn thing. It'd make me feel better."

Sam walked over to the place Leslie had been standing, looking around for any sign that she'd been injured. He crouched down to investigate a spot on the ground as Dean made his way over to him. Sam touched his fingers to the spot, holding his hand up in the light to examine it further.

"You hit her," he said quietly, staring a moment at the blood on his fingertips. "How's your wrist?"

"It's fine, Sammy," Dean told him, though he was still holding the injured limb close to his body.

"Lemme see."

"Sam..."

"Dean."

There was no room for negotiation. Dean extended his arm so his brother could examine his wrist. Already it was swollen to nearly twice the size it should have been, bruising clearly evident even in the poor light within the alley. Sam probed it gently and Dean hissed in pain. It was deformed – disjointed, if not broken.

"Ow..." the older Winchester muttered under his breath.

"I'm taking you to the emergency room," Sam declared. "Give me your keys."

"No, Sam, just wrap it up with a bandage and I'll be good to go."

"And what if it's broken? You need x-rays. I'm not gonna let you go after a killer while you're injured."

"Sammy..." Dean tried the warning tone, but this time his brother was unimpressed.

"Give me your keys," he repeated, holding his hand out expectantly. Dean let out a sigh of defeat. He handed over the keys.

 

0o0o0

 

The door opened quietly, a lean figure slipping through before it closed again. Just as the dead bolt slid home, the light turned on.

"Gah – that's bright!" Leslie protested, scrunching her eyes against the sudden illumination. "A little warning might've been nice."

"I thought you weren't coming back tonight," the man responded. "Did you find him?"

"No. I ran into a slight complication." She turned so he could see her arm. As she expected, he crossed the room and tugged her closer to the light source.

"A hunter," he murmured grimly.

"It's just a graze on the arm," Leslie told him.

"Like hell – it could have just as easily have been a hole in your heart," he scolded. "You said you were certain no one was working this case."

"And I was right! They're the two guys who showed up a couple days ago. There weren't any other hunters before that."

"And now, they have you made."

"They must have been watching the security monitors."

"What happened to being careful?" the man demanded.

"I didn't know they would be there!" Leslie exclaimed.

"Which is why you always assume that they are."

The girl diverted her gaze. "I can't tiptoe my entire life, you know," she spoke softly.

"But you could take less risks," he asserted.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his as her jaw set defiantly. "Be normal, you mean?"

He let out a sigh. "I'm not going to argue with you right now," he said. "I take it you aren't going to change?"

"No," Leslie answered, glancing down at the bloodied flesh of her arm. "Not for this."

"Let's get you patched up, then." He limped over to a cabinet to retrieve a first aid kit.

Leslie sat quietly as he cleaned the wound on her arm. True to her word, it was only a graze, but the silver made it worse than it would have been otherwise. The flesh surrounding the shallow gash from the bullet looked almost blistered, skin pulled away from the silver's path. It had to hurt, but she made no protest beyond a sharp intake of breath when he first poured rubbing alcohol onto the injury.

"All done," the man said after sticking a large bandage over the wound.

"Thanks," she replied. "I'm gonna swing by the club one more time and see if I have any luck tonight. Any good luck, I mean."

"Leslie..."

"I'll be careful."

"Be sure that you do, bug," he told her. "Be sure that you do."

 

0o0o0

 

"Oblique fracture of the distal forearm," Dean repeated the doctor's words as they walked out to the Impala.

"Yeah, both bones, even," Sam said, leaving out the 'I-told-you-so'.

"Ever notice how long it takes to get attention in the emergency room?" his brother asked.

"There have been a few times they've seen to us pretty quickly," Sam pointed out.

"Well, tonight wasn't one of them. That thing could be anywhere by now."

"Dean, she'd already gotten away."

"And this allowed her to get more away," Dean griped, holding up his blue cast before opening his door and climbing into the driver's seat.

Sam climbed in beside him.

"So, this shapeshifter must have taken on Leslie's identity. Which means, she's probably still alive somewhere," speculated Dean, "Y'know, because shapeshifters do that whole psychic mind-link thing. We definitely need to talk to her parents tomorrow."

"You're probably right," Sam said.

"'Probably'?" Dean raised his eyebrows.

"I dunno, Dean," the younger Winchester shook his head. "She just didn't seem menacing to me."

"Didn't seem _menacing_? Sam, the thing broke my arm."

"But she only acted in self-defense."

"It's pretending to be someone it's not! Just because it paints this nice portrayal of a mild-mannered, kind-hearted girl, doesn't mean it is one. The camera doesn't lie, Sam. It's a friggin' shapeshifter – they're all monsters."

"What if this time you're wrong, Dean? Remember Lenore and Eli? They're vampires that choose not to harm humans. Why can't a shapeshifter be the same?"

"Well, why don't you use one of your freaky demon powers to find out if it's evil or not, Sam?" Dean demanded. "Save us the trouble of tracking it down."

Sam looked at him, shocked. "I can't believe you just said that."

"Sammy," the older man kicked himself mentally. "Look – I'm sorry. I just got to talking and it – I didn't mean..."

"Forget it," Sam said, directing his gaze out the window.

"Sam..." Dean felt like an ass. He had the moment he realized what he'd said. There was just so much weighing on his mind – what with Sam's strange psychic powers and his own deal with the crossroads demon, never mind the appearance of Ruby. And now he had something new to add to the ever-growing mountain of guilt resting upon his shoulders.

They drove along in silence and Dean found he couldn't wait for the case to be over.

 

0o0


	4. Chapter Four

_**Chapter Four** _

0o0

 

"Saint _Blandina_?" Dean echoed, peering at the screen of Sam's laptop the next morning. The image from Leslie's pendant filled the right side of the web browser, accompanied by text on the left.

"Patron saint of girls, torture victims, and falsely accused people," said Sam.

"Torture victims and falsely accused people?"

"Sounds like just the saint I'd choose to represent my daughter."

"Now, I really want to meet these people," said Dean. "Let's go." They drove to their destination in relative silence; Sam still a bit hurt by Dean's words the night before, and Dean still feeling horrible for saying them.

The Kanes lived in a two-story house which stood in an old suburban neighborhood. A large shade tree stood in the front yard, while shrubbery and flowers occupied the flower beds along the front porch. It had brick siding and a dark red door. As far as houses go, it looked rather ordinary.

"Can I help you?" The woman who answered the door appeared to be somewhere in her fifties, brown hair softened with gray and warm, dark eyes. Before either could answer, she continued. "Ah, yes – you must be some of Leslie's friends, am I right? Do come in. That girl forgot to tell me anyone was coming."

"So, is Leslie here, then?" Sam asked, as he and his brother entered the house, both alert for any sign of danger.

"I'm afraid that's another thing she forget, else, I imagine she'd have met you here." She stretched a hand out. "Sally Kane, by the way."

"Dean."

"Sam. It's nice to meet you."

"And you boys, as well." Sally smiled kindly at them. "How about something to drink? Some iced tea or a coke, maybe?"

"That'd be great," Dean replied, exchanging a glance with Sam as the woman led them towards the kitchen. They slowed to get a closer look at a group of pictures on the wall. Most depicted a dark-haired girl of varying ages, others showed Sally and a stern-looking man with piercing blue eyes.

"Hey, Dean," Sam whispered to his brother once Sally had rounded the corner ahead, "do her eyes look funny to you?"

"Yeah," Dean answered back, just as quietly. "I was just noticing there was something off about them. It's in, like, every picture of her."

"That was Leslie growing up. Isn't she so pretty?" Sally asked, returning to the hall once she noticed they were no longer behind her.

"Oh, yeah. She sure is," Dean said agreeably. "She's Sam's type, especially. He really digs them brunettes."

Sam shot him a mild glare, then turned to face Sally. "Actually, Mrs. Kane -"

"Sally. Please."

"Right. Sally," he corrected. "See, Dean and I have been a bit worried about Leslie, lately."

Sally's brow puckered in concern. "Oh?"

"She's been a bit off, y'know," elaborated the elder Winchester. "Maybe you've noticed that she's been acting... I dunno. Strange. Like she's a different person, almost."

"No..." she responded, giving a slight shake of her head. "Not really."

"Why do you ask?"

The two brothers turned simultaneously to face the newcomer. The man from the photographs stood a few feet away. He was taller than he had appeared in the pictures, striking an imposing figure with his short, grizzled hair and broad shoulders. His icy blue eyes, which had been piercing in the photos, were even more so in life. He carried himself with the air of a man who had served his country and had been proud to do so. As he stood there, cutting gaze upon them, they couldn't help but feel a little intimidated.

"No reason, sir," answered Sam. "We're just concerned about Leslie, is all."

"I bet you are," the man intoned.

"Marshal, behave!" Sally admonished. "These two are Leslie's friends, Sam and Dean. I'd doubt she'd appreciate your bullying them."

"Sam and Dean who?" Marshal wanted to know.

"Winchester, sir," Dean told him. "Sam and Dean Winchester; we're brothers."

Sam thought he might have seen something flicker in the man's eyes, but it was so brief and Marshal's expression so impassive that it was difficult to tell.

"Leslie's not home," the man stated, shifting his gaze to his wife. "Remember, she called last night say she might not drop in until later."

"Oh, that's right!" said Sally. "She must have forgotten to tell you boys."

"Must have," muttered Dean.

"I guess we'll have to catch her again, later," Sam said.

"You do that," Marshal told them, though, neither his tone nor body language could really be taken as welcoming. He moved towards the door with an uneven gait, and the two hunters' notice was drawn for the first time to the brace just visible below his left pant leg. Opening the door, he turned to stare pointedly back at them.

"Marshal." Sally sounded vaguely exasperated. "I haven't even gotten them the drinks I'd offered, yet."

"Actually, we probably really ought to go," Dean interjected. "I just remembered we've got a few things we need to get done this morning. We really appreciate the offer, though."

"Anytime, dear," she responded warmly. She waved at them and Marshal waited until they were halfway down the walk before closing the door.

"Remind me never to bring home a guy I like," Leslie commented wryly as she walked down the stairs.

"Winchester," Marshal murmured thoughtfully.

"Know who they are?" the girl asked.

"I've a fair guess," he replied. He made his way towards his study, and after exchanging a look, Sally and Leslie trailed along behind him.

 

0o0o0

 

"What was wrong with her eyes?" Dean asked once they were moving down the street.

"I don't know, Dean," responded Sam. "They almost looked like they might have been photo-shopped."

"Like they weren't really her eyes."

"Yeah. It was the same with her senior yearbook picture, only it was harder tell because the picture was so small – and in black and white."

"I thought senior pictures were usually in color?"

Sam shrugged. "Guess Leslie's school was an exception."

"So, what – Leslie herself is a shapeshifter and her parents know about it?" questioned Dean.

"It's possible," said his brother. "I mean, we don't really know anything about the way they grow and develop. Maybe being a shapeshifter is the result of genetic mutation."

"So, her parents could be completely human. Still doesn't explain why she's decided to turn homicidal on the town."

"Unless she was telling the truth and there really is another shapeshifter doing the killing."

"If you say she wasn't menacing, I'm gonna hit you with my cast," Dean threatened.

"But that's just it, Dean," Sam argued. "She wasn't. I mean, she could have done a lot more damage than just breaking your arm. I don't think Leslie's our killer."

"Yeah, well. I'm sure you'd like to believe that, Sammy, but a shapeshifter's a shapeshifter."

"Then, why did you hesitate?"

"Excuse me?"

"In the alley, before I arrived. Why didn't you just shoot her?" the younger man clarified. "Because I think that, subconsciously, you realized her posture was nonthreatening."

"Dude. I didn't hesitate."

"Um. Yeah, Dean. You kinda did."

"I was waiting for you to arrive and back me up," Dean insisted.

"Whatever, man," Sam told him. "I'm still not convinced she's our killer."

"And I'm still not convinced she's innocent," Dean countered. "At the moment, though, she _is_ our only suspect."

Sam let out a sigh. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."

 

0o0o0

 

Dean peered at the rows of pictures on the print outs they'd gotten at the local library. Fourteen people – the ones who'd been murdered in Colorado and South Dakota – all likely disguises for their killer, if its choice of appearance at Nick Casby's was any indication. It was the only real idea they had on the matter; after all, a shapeshifter could literally look like anyone.

"Poor bastards," he murmured. "Find anything new?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. As far as public records go, the Kanes are spotless."

"So, no indication at all that there was something a little bit _strange_ about their daughter?"

"I'm telling you, Dean – they're spotless. Anything abnormal about that family has escaped public notice," said Sam.

"They brought up a shapeshifter," Dean stated slowly, "and nobody noticed."

His brother simply stared at him, refusing to repeat himself.

"I'm not sure if I should find that reassuring or a little bit freaky," the older man declared, shaking his head.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Alright," said Dean. "So, there hasn't been another murder yet, which that means our killer is probably still hanging around. We have here its most likely costumes, but I'm thinking, if we can find the thing's lair, we might be able to stop it before it has a chance to hurt anyone else."

"Looks like it's time for a field trip," agreed Sam, closing his laptop and rising from his chair at the small table in their motel room. Gathering up the items they wanted to take with them, the brothers made their way out the door.

"We'll he-" Dean broke off abruptly as his gaze fell upon the figure seated atop the Impala's hood. His gun was in his hand almost instantly. Sam tensed, hazel eyes moving back and forth between his sibling and the intruder.

"Look," Leslie sighed. "If it's all the same to you, could you put a damper on the trigger-happy? I'd really rather not be shot again."

"Get _off_ my car," Dean ground out, weapon still pointed at her.

"Sheesh," she remarked. "Touchy, much?" Lifting her hands up in a gesture of submission, she stood, taking a few steps from the Impala for good measure.

"What do you want?" the hunter demanded.

She gazed steadily back at him, seemingly unaffected by the man's hostility. "I've come to suggest we work together," she stated.

"Excuse me?"

"You want to stop the killer; so do I. Working together should increase our chances of success," Leslie reasoned.

"Who's to say you're not just trying to lower our guard?" Dean asked. "The killer is a shapeshifter, after all. Just like you."

Leslie lowered her arms to her sides with another sigh. "You don't trust me. I get it. Frankly, I don't trust you, either – I'm a bit surprised you haven't tried to kill me again, just yet," she said. "But then, maybe you guys are wise enough to realize the world's not black and white." Her gaze shifted to Sam. "And not all monsters are the same.

"If I were the killer, why would I knowingly put myself at your mercy?"

"Why should we believe you?" the older Winchester countered. "I mean, you can be anyone you want – how can we know you're not just lying?"

"Haven't lied to you, yet," said Leslie. "You saw the pictures at my parents' place. It can be difficult to edit out the retinal response of a shapeshifter's eyes to the camera. I'm not pretending to be Leslie Kane. I am her. If I told the truth about that, why not about the killer?"

"She's got a point, Dean," Sam spoke up, placing a hand against his brother's arm to get him to lower the gun. "I mean, I'm not saying we just turn our backs on her, but everything she's told us so far has been the truth. We should at least hear her out."

Dean relented, slowly tucking his gun away, though his gaze never left Leslie. He wriggled his fingers surreptitiously, the combination of the cast and gripping the weapon having caused them to lose some sensation. "Alright," he said. "What've you got?"

"Are you gonna shoot me if I reach into my car?" the shapeshifter asked sardonically. At Sam's tight smile and head shake, she walked over to her Dodge and reached in through the open passenger window.

"Why couldn't she have sat on her own damn car?" Dean muttered darkly.

"So," Leslie began, emerging from her vehicle with her daybook in hand. "I've done a fair bit of digging and I don't think this is the first place the killer has victimized." She flipped through several pages, pulling out some loose sheets. "See, there have been these strings of murders -"

"Lemme guess," Dean cut in. "South Dakota and Colorado, right?"

"Yes... and the murders in Nevada, too."

"Wait – Nevada?" Sam repeated.

"Well, they were spread out over the course of months instead of weeks and across an entire county instead of one town," said Leslie, handing him the pages – which turned out to be news articles. "But it's the same MO: seven murders, no viable suspects, all killed with something that means something to them."

"Hold on. Repeat that," the older hunter told her.

"They were killed with something that means something to them," she complied, enunciating the words carefully. "You hadn't caught on to that? Tom Barker, bowling champion: head beat in with one of his trophies. Noelle Manning, chef: gutted with her own professional cutlery. Need I continue?

"Look, the killer is getting to know his victims well enough to make something they love be the very thing that kills them."

"And that's not twisted at all," Dean remarked sarcastically.

"Did you notice that he was masquerading as one of his previous victims on the security footage form Nick Casby's place?" his brother asked Leslie.

"Of course," she responded, digging out some grainy photo prints. "Also, here... from the video taken at the stable the day before Jenna Adamson was found murdered. She's accompanied by this man," she pointed out a figure in several of the images. "Now, you never get a clear view of him – he never looks at the camera – but, I'm pretty sure he's meant to be this guy, here." She indicated one of the Nevada murder victims.

Sam's eyebrows elevated slightly, impressed. "May I?" he requested, gesturing with his hand.

Leslie hesitated a moment. "Yeah," she said finally, handing him the daybook. "Go ahead."

The younger Winchester shuffled through the pages, starting from where the book was already open. Later pages were blank, but earlier sheets were littered with articles, neatly written notes, and careful sketches. It didn't take long to realize it wasn't truly a daybook, after all.

"Dean, look at this," he murmured incredulously.

His brother looked over his shoulder, reaching over to flip through the pages himself. "Dude," he said, green eyes fixing on Leslie. "You _hunt_ things?"

"Just... research, mostly," said Leslie, shifting uncomfortably. "A lot of it isn't even mine."

"Check this out," Sam tapped a news clipping. "Springvale, Arkansas."

"Possible poltergeist in a movie theater," Dean recalled. "We checked it out, but the place had been quiet for almost a week. There was nothing."

"It wasn't a poltergeist," corrected Leslie, reclaiming the book from them, "just the really pissed off ghost of a former concession stand worker."

"You took care of that?" Dean questioned disbelievingly.

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I was passing through," she stated simply. Digging a clear jewel case out from where it was tucked behind all the pages, she held it up so they could see it.

"Is that from last night?" asked Sam.

Leslie smiled wryly. "I _might_ be acquainted with the loser who mans the Oasis's security equipment."

 

0o0


	5. Chapter Five

_**Chapter Five** _

0o0

 

"Now, I feel a bit stupid," Dean declared.

They were gathered around Sam's laptop, Leslie and Sam seated in the two chairs while Dean looked over their shoulders. On the screen, the footage from two of the Oasis' security cams were paused at the same time stamp. In one of them, Leslie could be seen moving through the crowd. In the other, a man stood with his back against the bar, frozen mid-conversation with the woman seated beside him. He had raised his head a bit, allowing the camera to catch his eyes – shapeshifter eyes.

"I missed it, too," Sam offered.

Leslie shrugged. "You thought you'd already spotted the killer," she stated pragmatically. "Why keep looking? In other news, I know the girl he left with last night."

"You do?" Sam asked her.

"Yeah." A difficult to read expression flitted across her face. "Her name is _Cheryl Blake_." She put an odd inflection on the name.

"I take it you know her," noted Dean.

"She was a year ahead of me in high school," Leslie responded tersely.

"Let me guess: you don't like her."

"Frankly? No. She was a stuck-up bitch. But she doesn't deserve to die."

"So," said Sam, "the killer picked up this Cheryl Blake person last night. There hasn't been any news of another murder, yet, so she's probably still alive. How long do you think she has before she becomes victim number seven?"

"Not long enough," Dean decided. "We need to find this thing before it discovers her favorite thing and killed her with it. You're certain she's this Cheryl chick?" He directed the last part at Leslie, who nodded.

"I'm sure."

"Awesome." The older hunter reached quickly into his pocket, then grabbed for her arm.

A pained gasp escaped Leslie's lips as a metal cuff was slapped onto her left wrist. Before she had the opportunity to recover from the surprise, she'd been hauled out of her chair and into the small bathroom, where the other cuff was attached to the pipe beneath the sink.

" _Oh, god..._ " she whimpered, turning an accusing glare upon Dean. "Who the _hell_ owns silver handcuffs?"

Sam looked on, eyes wide, every bit as surprised as Leslie.

"Special order," Dean answered with the cocky smirk. "Never know when they might come in handy."

"You don't have to do this." It sounded like she was talking through clenched teeth.

"Of course I do," he replied. "Sure, you've told us the truth about a lot of things – and that's great, really – but that doesn't mean you aren't working with our killer. Hell, for all we know, the two of you are siblings or mates or something. Call me paranoid, but I'm just not ready to trust you."

"You bastard," she growled.

Dean pretended he didn't notice the tears that had begun to glisten in her eyes. "Yeah. You're not the first girl to call me that, sweetheart," he flippantly remarked. "You are, however, the first girl I've cuffed to the bathroom sink, so congratulations on that.

"Now, Sam and I have got a job to do, so we'll have to finish this chat later. Hope you don't mind." He stepped out of the small room, closing the door behind him.

"Dean."

"Grab your stuff, Sam. Let's go."

Sam jogged after his brother as the older man strode out to the Impala. "Dude, Dean – I thought we agreed to trust her."

"No," countered his brother as he rummaged through the trunk. "I agreed to hear her out. She gave us some good intel – we still can't be sure she's not just jerking us around."

"What about her daybook, Dean?" the younger man implored. "You _saw_ it. It may not be as extensive or complete, but it's laid out just like dad's journal – hell, just like about every other hunter's we know."

"Yeah, and it could just be a ploy to get us to trust her, Sam. Look. You wanna believe she's everything she's cracked up to be. I get it. I do. But she's still a shapeshifter, and shapeshifters lie. It's what they are and they're damn good at it.

"So, I'm sorry," Dean said, meeting his brother's gaze, "and I'll apologize to her later if I'm wrong, but right now, I'd rather err on the side of caution. If that makes me an asshole, then so be it."

Sam let out a sigh, clearly not agreeing, then asked, "Do you really think that's going to hold her?"

"It'd hold either of us," stated Dean.

"Most likely," Sam agreed, "but like you said: she's a shapeshifter."

"Which makes her a bit stronger than an average human. It's not like she's She-Hulk, Sam." Dean closed the trunk and moved around to the side of the vehicle. "Alright, you look up that Cheryl girl – go see what you can get out of her."

"What about you?"

"I'm gonna head down to the sewers, see if I can find the killer's lair."

"Alright," said Sam.

"Oh, and Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"I know you don't agree with me, but leave Leslie in the bathroom."

"I will, alright?" Sam told him. "Just... get in the car. I'll drop you off at the nearest manhole."

 

0o0o0

 

Cheryl Blake lived in a condo on the upper end of town. A shiny, blue Mustang stood in her driveway beside a professionally manicured lawn. The entire neighborhood seemed to have a glitzy feel to it.

Sam parked the Impala along the street. As he made his way to the door, he noted that the blinds were shut and a newspaper still sat on the doorstep. Halting beside said newspaper, he reached out and rang the bell. The sound of a door chain being unfastened and the dead bolt being unlocked could be heard before the door slowly opened, as though itself hesitant. Cheryl emerged from behind it, her expression too forced to be the polite smile it was meant to be.

"C-can I help you?" she asked.

"Hi. I'm Agent Carlson with the FBI," Sam told her. "We're doing an investigation in the area. I just need to ask you a few questions about someone you might have met last night."

"Of course," she chirped, too brightly, that fake smile still on her face. "Come on in."

The hunter did so with great caution, hand reaching for his pistol. Her mannerisms were setting off all sorts of alarm bells, and while it appeared she was barely holding herself together, he half-expected her to turn out to be the killer.

The woman took care in closing the door behind him, resetting the locks with trembling hands. That done, she let her forehead rest against the door a moment before turning to face him.

"Hey – you alright?" Sam asked her.

"Y-you're some sort of m-monster hunter?" she questioned in response. "Right?"

"Why do you ask?"

Her eyes brimmed over with tears that began to trickle down her cheek. "Because I have a message for you f-from that thing."

Now, the gun was in his hands, his gaze sweeping his surroundings. "That man you met last night?"

"It wasn't a man at all," Cheryl said, her pitch rising. "I... I saw it turn into me!"

"What? Cheryl, where is it?"

She shook her head. "Not here. It – it said, the o-only reason it didn't kill me is... is because..." She broke off into a volley of panicked whimpers.

"Is because of what?" Sam demanded firmly. "Cheryl, what message do you have for me?"

"It said," she began again, taking in a gulping breath as she managed to regain some control, "th-that it knows you're on to it – two guys a-and a girl. It... it knows where you'll look for it, and that's how it'll gain the upper hand."

"Why tell us that? And – no offense – why keep you alive?"

"It needed me to be a decoy," Cheryl murmured, starting to come apart again.

"What?"

"It s-said, n-not even a h-hunter c-can look t-two ways at once."

A lead weight dropped into Sam's stomach. " _Dean._ "

 

0o0o0

 

Dean prodded at the small stack of clothing which sat on a makeshift shelf. Brow puckering, his gaze swept over his surroundings again: a few pieces of dilapidated furniture, some candles, random bits of paper and clothing. At first glance, it might have looked pretty typical, but by the second look, the whole scene seemed horribly off in that minute way which always screamed volumes.

The place was just too _clean_.

His phone started to ring. "Yeah?" he answered it.

"Dean," Sam spoke in a rush, "you need to get out of the sewers."

"Worried about me, Sammy?" Dean teased as his eyes fell upon a large object beneath an old blanket.

"No – well, _yes_ – but that's not the point," his brother responded. "Dean, it's a trap! You need to get out of there."

The older hunter removed the blanket, revealing the figure underneath. "What did you find at that Cheryl girl's place?"

"What?"

"Cheryl. Her apartment, or whatever. What did you find?" Dean bent down to work on unknotting a rope.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Dean. Where are you?"

"The killer's lair," he responded. "Or.. something. I found Cheryl. She's all tied up and unconscious, but she's alive."

"Dean – you need to leave her and get out of there," Sam told him. " _Now_."

"What? Dude – I'm not gonna just leave her!"

"It's not Cheryl."

Dean straightened, staring at the girl's slack features. "Come again?"

"It's not Cheryl; it's the killer."

"You sure about this?" Dean demanded, standing to pace a short distance. "Because, Sam, I'm telling you, this chick is tied to a friggin' chair, hands behind her back. How do you explain that if someone else didn't do the tying?"

"Did you actually see that her hands were tied?" his brother asked.

He felt his heart skip a beat as he whirled to face the empty chair. Before he could even utter an 'oh, crap,' a heavy weight was brought down on the back of his skull. As darkness claimed him, his phone slipped from his fingers to clatter to the sewer floor.

 

0o0


	6. Chapter Six

_  
**Chapter Six**   
_

0o0

 

Sam made his way back to the motel. The killer wouldn't have remained in the place where he had taken Dean and the younger man was inclined to think that perhaps his lair wasn't in the sewers, after all. Leslie had said that she had been tracking the killer for a week. Maybe she would have an idea as to where his brother might have been taken – if she would even talk to him after he let her out of the handcuffs.

"Leslie," he started talking when he was halfway across the room. "It was a trap. We separated and now the killer's taken Dean. Look, I know I have no right to ask for your help after -"

Sam broke off as he opened the bathroom door to find a vacant room. The silver cuffs were still attached to the pipe under the sink, the one that had been around Leslie's wrist hanging open. A coiled wire with the end straightened was the most likely tool used in her escape. For a moment, Sam was at a loss as to how she had gotten it until he spotted the two plastic ends of the toilet roll holder.

A bemused huff forced its way past his lips.

Making his way back to the Impala, he noted that Leslie had left her Dodge behind when she fled. Wherever she went was probably on foot or via public transport. If she wanted to hide from them, Sam doubted he'd be able to find her, but she didn't strike him as the hiding type – after all, Leslie had sought them out.

He decided to drive back to the Kanes' house, a whisper in the back of his mind pointing out that Leslie wasn't in the bathroom at the time Dean was taken, but Sam didn't want to think about it. What he wanted was to believe that she had been telling them the truth. If she had, then she would be tangible evidence – proof that just because the blood of monsters flowed through a person's veins didn't mean that they had to be a monster.

Sam needed to believe that was possible.

Standing uncertainly on the doorstep for a moment, the hunter finally rang the bell. The door swung open and Marshal Kane's piercing gaze burned into his.

"You've got a lot of nerve," he intoned, and the chill in his demeanor threatened to send shivers down Sam's spine.

"Daddy." A slim hand came to rest on the man's forearm, causing him to turn his head to look down at his daughter. Leslie's attention was directed at Sam. "What happened?" she asked.

"Sir," Sam asked Marshal, instead, "how long has your daughter been here?"

Marshal's lips thinned in displeasure, but he answered anyway, tone clipped. "Nearly an hour."

 _An hour._ Unless the man was lying, Leslie couldn't have been there when his brother was taken.

Sam stared at her for a moment, studying her intently, as though doing so could give him the measure of her being. Dean believed that it was just as likely that Leslie was working with the killer and Sam would've been an idiot to deny the possibility. But she had a book that was just like their dad's journal, full of monsters and ghosts and how to overcome them. She had information about an angry spirit that had been vanquished before they could reach it.

What was more, there was bandage just visible beneath the right sleeve of her shirt and she had a ring of angry, red welts encircling her left wrist.

"Doesn't that hurt?" he questioned, pointing to her wrist.

"Yeah. It burns," Leslie responded.

"Wouldn't it go away if you changed?"

She nodded slowly. "It would," she confirmed. "It's unnecessary, though. I mean, it's uncomfortable, but it's not life-threatening."

"What about where Dean grazed you with that bullet?"

Her hand came up to rest gingerly over the bandage. She looked up at her father, who was as stone-faced as ever, giving him a small smile. Apparently, he received whatever message the expression was meant to send, because the man reached up to wordlessly caress her cheek before shooting Sam a cold glare and moving off down the hallway.

Leslie stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. "Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, but why bother asking?" she queried. "You're a hunter; I'm nothing but a creature to you. There's no need to pretend that you care about my well-being. So, why don't you tell me why you're really here? I'm assuming that since your charming brother isn't here that he's been taken. Right?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "It was a trap. The only reason Cheryl's still alive is because the killer counted on us splitting up to talk to her."

"Where was Dean when he was taken?"

"He said he was in the killer's lair down in the sewers."

"The sewers?" Leslie let out a humorless laugh. "You and your brother are _really_ into stereotypes, aren't you? Come on." She started down the steps towards the Impala.

"Wait – where are we going?" asked Sam.

"Your motel," she answered over her shoulder. "I left my stuff there. Also, it's probably best for you to leave before my dad decides to shoot you or something." She got into the passenger's seat and Sam climbed in beside her.

"He'd actually do that?"

Leslie shrugged. "My dad's a bit overprotective, sometimes."

Sam just shook his head and started the car, pulling away from the curb and driving down the street.

"Did you know most shapeshifters don't actually live or spend much time in sewers?" she spoke after a couple of minutes. "Shapeshifters have heightened senses. They – we don't like the filth and the stink anymore than humans do. Hunters successfully track a few bad ones down into a city's underbelly and suddenly that's the first place to look for a lair. That's why it makes for a good trap."

He glanced over at her, but her gaze was fixed on the window. "Where do they prefer to go, then?"

"Abandoned buildings and houses, mostly. Well, among those who refuse to be a part of society, anyhow," Leslie replied. "One thing is right, though – sewers make an excellent means of transportation."

"So, you think we need to look into places near the sewer system," Sam deduced.

"It's where I would look," said Leslie. She turned her head to look at him. "I was about to say as much before your brother cuffed me to the bathroom sink."

"Leslie, about Dean -" he began guiltily.

"Don't apologize for him," she cut him off. Contemplatively, she trailed her fingers over the angry, red welts surrounding her sore wrist. "I suppose this makes us even, anyway. I did break his arm, after all."

"You were defending yourself," said Sam.

"I could've just ran."

"And Dean might have actually hit you."

One of her shoulders rose and fell. "Might have," she conceded quietly.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, pulling up in front of the motel a few minutes later. Leslie stopped at her car long enough to retrieve a battered messenger bag from her trunk.

"More research?" Sam guessed.

"My laptop," she replied. "I figure if we look for possible hideouts simultaneously we can narrow it down twice as fast."

It only took about fifteen minutes of comparing the city's sewer grid with empty buildings until they had narrowed their search down to a handful of structures. A few more were ruled out due to a relatively high level of daily activity in the areas, leaving them with only two locations.

"These three buildings are pretty much central to where all the murders took place," said Sam, gesturing at his laptop.

Leslie nodded. "They are," she agreed. She brought up the street view of the other location on her own screen. "I think the theater is our best bet, though."

"But it's almost on the outskirts of town."

"Exactly. The killer banked on a hunter's adherence to stereotype before and Dean was captured. The old theater is out of the way. That's why I think he would have chosen it."

"Alright, let's check out the old theater." He rose from his seat and stepped towards the door, pausing when he noticed that Leslie remained in her chair, gazed fixed downward. "Leslie?"

Her teeth came out to worry her bottom lip for a moment. "Actually," she began slowly, "I think the killer would be expecting you to go after your brother, either way."

"Well, I'm not about to just leave him." He refused to consider the possibility that Dean might not still be alive.

"I know. So does the killer, and he's gonna be waiting for you to arrive." She stood, turning to face him. "We know he's armed. With Dean's gun, if nothing else."

"So, what do you suggest?" asked Sam.

"Well... I sort of have a plan," her gaze slipped from his, her hands rubbing against the legs of her jeans.

He stared at her expectantly.

"It would – it'd involve me becoming you."

" _What?_ "

"Forget it. It's a bad idea," she said.

"No – just, maybe tell me what the idea is, first," Sam told her.

"Well, as you're probably aware, when a shapeshifter becomes somebody, they form a psychic link to that person. It helps with the whole pretending to be someone else thing," she began. "If I were you, I'd be able to know if you ran into the killer and needed help. I mean, I'd block out your consciousness – I don't want to intrude anymore than necessary – but if a thought is abrupt or sudden enough, it filters through, anyway. We'd have, like, one-way emergency communication...

"Like I said," she reiterated. "Bad idea."

"Actually," he said, "I think we should do it."

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll, uh, need to borrow some of your clothes."

"About the last thing I expect to hear from a girl," stated Sam.

"Yeah, I don't generally do a lot of cross-dressing, either," Leslie wryly remarked.

He dug a clean set of clothes out of his bag and handed it to her.

"Are you certain?" she asked him. "I mean, I'm gonna be in your head. Not for long – and I'll try to steer of anything too personal – but I won't really be able to block a whole lot out until I've fully taken your form. Thirty seconds, tops, but... you'd be surprised how much you can learn about a person."

Sam hesitated a second at that. There were a lot of things he didn't want anyone to know about stored away in his mind, things he hadn't even told Dean, but he'd decided to trust Leslie; he wasn't going to back out now. He'd deal with any repercussions later.

"I'm sure," he told her.

"I'll be out in a few minutes, then." She went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

Sam had just sat down on the edge of the bed when his view of the room was abruptly superimposed by a barrage of memories that did not belong to him.

" _Monster,"_ a voice accused. Flashes of shedding skin and clumps of hair, unedited photographs of a girl with eyes glaring in view of the camera.

A little hand pressed against the window as neighborhood children played outside. Loneliness.

" _Daddy."_ He spoke with the voice of a young girl, earnest and searching. _"Why do I have to change? How come I'm not like everyone else?"_

Marshal Kane, younger but not lacking the brace on his left leg, reached out a hand to caress his cheek. _"Because... you're special."_

He jerked violently away, batting at the man's hand. _"I don't want to be special! I want to be normal like everyone else!"_ Rage. Bitterness.

Monster.

A knife lay atop a cloth on a dressing table, its blade glinting in the overhead light. He looked up into his reflection; Leslie looked back at him. Pain. Weariness.

He was facing Dean in the alley behind the Oasis, slender hands held placatingly in front of him, Leslie's thoughts obscuring what was said like a voice over. _"Maybe I should just let him shoot me. One less monster in the world..."_

 _Monster._

" _Why did you even keep me?"_ Leslie's voice, screaming. _"I'm nothing but a monster – why would you do something like that?"_

" _Leslie..."_

Knees drawn up to his chest, a corner at his back as sobs wracked his slender frame. _"I don't want it. I don't wanna change anymore..."_ Helplessness. Self-loathing.

" _Monster!"_

Sam gasped for air, the room once more surrounding him. A look at the clock confirmed that not even a minute had passed. His first thought was that what he'd just experienced was normal, but then he recalled that the 'shifter in St. Louis had taken Dean's form and he was fairly certain Dean would have mentioned something like this happening. A fluke, then. And all those images, that one word repeated over and over like a death sentence – was that how Leslie saw herself?

Before he could ponder the question further, the bathroom door opened and Leslie stepped out dressed in his clothes and looking exactly like him. Perfect copies of his own hazel eyes fixed upon him and a faint pucker appeared in that identical brow as the shapeshifter frowned down at him.

"Sam?" Leslie asked in his own voice – which somehow made things seem even more bizarre. "You okay?"

"This is weird," Sam declared.

Her mouth twitched in amusement. "Isn't it?" She started across the room, halting again under his intent gaze. "Did you change your mind? I'd understand if you have. We could... shout or call, instead."

She didn't know, Sam realized. Leslie had no idea that when her mind linked to his that he had caught a glimpse into her soul.

"No," he told her. "I was just – I was wondering what we were going to do if you needed help. I mean, this link thing only goes one direction, right?"

"I guess I'll just have to run," Leslie said, matter-of-fact, "and hope that I'm faster."

"No." Sam rose to his feet, fixing her with a stern stare. "I'll cuff you to the sink again unless you promise to call for help if you need it."

Leslie's brows rose at this. "I promise," she said.

"Good," he nodded, then turned towards the door. "Let's go see what's playing at the theater."

"Ten bucks says there's a monster and a damsel in distress," quipped Leslie.

"And the hero?" Sam asked.

She grinned. "Every damsel needs her knight."

 

0o0


	7. Chapter Seven

_**Chapter Seven** _

0o0

 

The old community theater was larger than Sam had anticipated. On the ground floor was the bulk of the seating as well as the stage and dressing rooms. There was a second floor with balconies and suites and some basement rooms for storage. He opted to start searching in the basement.

Leslie silently made her way through the dressing rooms, Sam's thoughts suppressed to a nonsensical murmur in the back of her mind. She tensed as a colorful string of profanities broke through, but Sam had only stubbed his toe. After checking the last dressing room, she made her way to the stage, senses alert for anything out of the ordinary.

Sam bit back a cry as he smashed his foot against a heavy piece of equipment in the corridor. He continued along more carefully, watching out for any other obstacles. He directed his flashlight down the hall; he only had a couple more rooms to search in the basement and it was looking as though the killer really was against shapeshifter stereotypes.

Picking her way around some overturned props, Leslie headed towards the room which once housed the theater's sound equipment. The door was open a few inches and she stilled to listen: soft grunting and someone muttering angrily under his breath. Dean, trying to escape some kind of bonds, Leslie concluded, and at the moment, he was alone.

The young man slowed to a halt as a wave of anxiety suddenly washed over him. Sam pointed the flashlight back into the vacant room he had just left, frowning to himself. The basement was empty – he'd just left the last room – and while he was concerned about Dean, this was different. It had been a spike of alarm which had no apparent cause.

Approaching cautiously, she gently pushed at the door. It squeaked and she cringed, pausing to listen again. Movement within the room had ceased, but there seemed to be no other change. Pressing against it once more, she opened it far enough to allow Sam's frame to slip through. Her gaze quickly swept the room as the stepped inside. There was one other door – and it was wide open.

"Sam?" Dean hissed at him, looking over his shoulder from the chair he was tied to facing the back wall. "Dude – it's about friggin' time. Get me out of here."

Leslie made her way over to him, glancing back at the open doorway as she did so. "Dean," she spoke quietly, "you alright?" She decided to break the news that she wasn't Sam later.

"You mean apart from the fact I've got a migraine and this stupid cast is making my arm itch like crazy?" he sniped back. "I'm peachy."

"I don't even wanna think about the filth that has gotten into that thing," she remarked, working to untie the ropes binding his hands.

"Just cut the damn thing!" Dean told her.

"Well, excuse me for forgetting to bring a knife."

" _What?_ You never forget your _knife_."

Leslie had opened her mouth to reply when the skin across her shoulders began to crawl. " _Shit,_ " she breathed, muscles throughout her body tensing.

"Aw. Isn't this so sweet?" a new voice spoke up, tone saccharine. "Little brother's come to save the day."

They turned to see the newcomer. The killer smiled malevolently back at them. He was still wearing Cheryl Blake's appearance.

"Oh, but wait," said the killer, donning a shocked expression. "I don't think it's little brother after all. Is it?" His tone turned abruptly steely as a look of loathing overtook his features.

Leslie rose to her feet, turning to face him fully.

"You're not the only one who does your research, traitor," the killer growled, raising Dean's pistol. "Cheryl says hi, by the way, _Leslie dear_. She always knew you were a freak show."

Several things happened after that. Leslie dodged right. The gun barked once. Dean gave a shout. A cry of pain filled the room. Leslie collided with the wall, hand clasping her shoulder. And the killer smirked as he pointed the weapon at Dean.

Then another shot rang out.

Bewilderment claimed the killer's stolen features, mere seconds before he fell lifelessly to the floor. Sam stood in the doorway behind him, slowly bringing his own gun to his side.

"Leslie said you were a bitch," he stated.

"Now, you listen to me," Leslie groaned, pushing herself away from the wall.

Dean craned his head to stare from one to the other and back again. "What the friggin' hell is going on here?" he demanded.

 

0o0o0

 

Dean and Sam looked up as the bathroom door opened. Leslie came out carrying a tied garbage bag, looking the way she had when they met her. She rolled her left shoulder, grimacing slightly.

"Is your shoulder still bothering you?" Sam asked in surprise.

"Phantom pain," she replied, waving it off. "Because of the silver. It'll go away in a couple days."

Dean cleared his throat as subtly as he could. "So," he began.

"I'm sorry about your arm," Leslie told him.

"Yeah, well... I'm, uh, sorry for shooting you," the elder Winchester said awkwardly.

"You thought you were protecting people."

"Right. About cuffing you to the sink..."

"I understand," Leslie said, gray-blue eyes gazing into his, "but I'm not ready to forgive you for that one."

"Hey – I thought I was protecting people!" Dean protested.

"And I'd thought we were trusting each other." The shapeshifter turned to face the younger of the two brothers. "Thank you for believing me. There aren't many people who would have."

"Thanks for helping me save my brother," Sam returned.

She grabbed her belongings from where they still sat on the small table. Her hand was on the doorknob, when Sam spoke up again.

"Hey, Leslie?" he asked.

"Yes?" she returned, brows raised inquiringly.

"How old were you when your parents realized you were... different?" the man wanted to know. "If you don't mind my asking."

"They knew before they adopted me," Leslie replied.

"You were adopted?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Yeah. I was nearly three at the time." She stood by the door for a moment, opening it when no other questions were forthcoming. "Good bye," she told them.

"Bye, Leslie," said Sam.

The two Winchester brothers were on the road a short while later. Night had already fallen, but Dean claimed that he'd seen enough of the town and Sam was inclined to agree. Besides, neither of them wanted to be around when the killer's body was discovered.

"Who knowingly adopts a shapeshifter?" Dean questioned as he steered the Impala onto the highway.

"I dunno, Dean" Sam answered distractedly, earning a suspicious glance from his brother.

Dean turned his gaze back to road and waited. The younger man was wearing his 'pensive Sammy' look, and that almost always preceded his sharing whatever was on his mind. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Sam started to talk.

"When Leslie took my form, I saw something," he said. "I got a glimpse into her mind."

" _What?"_ Dean exclaimed. "I don't think that's normal, Sam."

"I know – I think it might be because of my psychic thing."

They fell silent for a moment.

"So, what did you see?" the older man asked.

"She despises her own existence," Sam answered softly. "What she is, having to change – she hates it. All she's wanted her entire life is to be like everyone else."

"Sam..."

"She's lonely – she's kept everyone at a distance because of what she is."

"Sounds like a personal problem," Dean declared.

"People like that don't trust, Dean," Sam snapped, his tone a bit heated. "She was willing to trust us, and we walked all over that."

Dean sighed in defeat. "I don't know what you want me to say, Sam."

"There isn't anything to say," said his brother, leaning back into his seat. "Just... maybe consider the idea that the world's not black and white."

The shadowed landscape slipped quietly past as the Impala continued down the road.

"Maybe it's not," admitted Dean.

 

0o0

 **End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this! If you'd be so kind as to take a moment to leave me a bit of feedback, I'd greatly appreciate it! ~Quen


End file.
